


Catch You When You Fall

by Starla-Nell (Princess_Nell)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Blushing, EVERYONE FALLS, Flirting, Fluff, Happy Ending, Isabela is a good bro, M/M, Misunderstandings, Modern AU, Not Like That, Pining, Post-College AU, Slow-motion fall, Swearing, it's all slow-mo, roommates au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-20 02:00:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16546664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess_Nell/pseuds/Starla-Nell
Summary: Zevran can’t tell his best friend Isabela why rooming with Alistair is the worst idea. Next thing he knows, he’s moving in with his straight crush. Or is he?





	1. Urn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Luffymarra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luffymarra/gifts).



> Apologies for taking so long to get this posted! Completely my fault. The short story is I missed the email from the exchange. 
> 
> Thank you to Rosehip for the sudden beta! You saved my fanfic soul and inspired the last sorely-needed 523 words. 
> 
> I used a “First Sentence Prompt” from this harpers-mirror Tumblr list:  
> https://harpers-mirror.tumblr.com/post/141253460646/first-sentence-writing-prompts

“Careful, don’t drop”—

“Brasca!” The ceramic funeral urn slips from Zevran’s fingers. He dives for it. Isabela dives for it. Even Alistair, halfway across the room, dives for it. Cue the slow-motion reel.

First, Isabela knocks into Zevran’s chair. Zevran loses his balance, hits the urn instead of catching it, and lands on the tipped chair. Legs and armrests ram uncomfortably into places that were never meant to accept chair parts. Not like _that_. His ribs. Isabela lands on top of him, probably because he grabbed her on the way down. There are benefits to that. For one, she knocks him off the chair and onto the floor.

“Oof.” _What more need be said?_

The urn is falling in its slow-mo arc. It’s a small room of an apartment carved from a rambling house, and in college, Alistair was a Beavers tight end. Not like _that_. American football. He dives for the urn with his uncle’s mother’s ashes and, Maker bless him, _catches_ it, three inches from the scuffed hardwood floor.

End slow-motion reel.

Isabela whoops, leaping up (crushing Zevran’s leg, thank you for your concern) and tackling Alistair in a hug. Alistair keeps ahold of the urn.

“Thank the Maker for your _tight end_!” she yells, clinging to his neck. _Of course she actually_ says _it._ “I did not want to vacuum up bits of that woman all afternoon.”

“That sounds so different out of context,” Alistair mumbles. He carefully wraps an arm around her hips and peels her off. Zevran doesn’t get jealous. He doesn’t. They’re all adults here.

Not like _that_. Sadly.

“Still valid,” Zevran teases, checking himself over and finding himself bruised but not permanently damaged. He gets up. “Isabela...” He shakes his finger and grins to show they’re still friends, but his other hand rubs his new bruise. Gently.

“If you hadn’t _dropped_ it...” Isabela says.

“You were tickling him!” Alistair objects, setting the urn on the mantel without using the chair. Zevran’s chest does a flip or flutter. Zevran considers. _Flutter, this time._ This is the exact reason Isabela’s whole ‘jock roommates’ idea is terrible, but he can’t tell her _or_ Alistair that, so here he is, in the middle of a half-unpacked two-bedroom apartment.

“Tickling is no excuse,” Zevran admits, hanging his head. “I’ve shamed my alma mater and cheerleaders everywhere.”

“You could never shame me, Zevran,” Isabela says. _She’s right. She’d never allow it._ Zevran grins.

“I doubt your cheerleading training covered ‘holding fragile objects while being tickled’,” Alistair says.

“You’d be surprised,” Zevran says with just the right level of smugness. _There it is._ That delicious _stare_ and _blink_ when Alistair starts imagining what he’s hinting at.

“I’m innocent! I thought he’d put the urn down!” Isabela claims, missing it for once. Isabela calls it his dirty-movie blink. Zevran just wants to know who’s starring.

Alistair smiles and shakes a finger at her. “Are you always trouble?”

“I see how it is. Well, if you don’t want my help…” Isabela saunters unconvincingly in the vague direction of the door.

“No!” Alistair says, falling for it as he always does. “It’s fine! Please stay, oh great and mighty queen of moving! I can grovel if needed. Do I need to grovel? Because I will.”

“Has Isabela’s help justified actual groveling, though?” Zevran asks in a stage-whisper. “Perhaps we would unpack faster if she left.”

“We haven’t hung your movie posters yet,” Alistair hisses in return. “You know we’ll never make them line up right without her.”

“My queen, how might we make up for Alistair’s _complete_ lack of tact?”

“Hey!” Alistair protests.

“I don’t know…” Isabela says, “the groveling sounds awfully nice.” She plucks a peach from the congratulations-on-your-new-apartment fruit basket from Dorian.

Alistair grins. “See, Isabela appreciates my groveling!”

“I could invent reasons to grovel, if it gives you such pleasure,” Zevran teases.

“Now _that_ I wouldn’t mind seeing.” Isabela settles on a squishy chair and brushes the skin of the peach against her lips, sinking her teeth into it and sucking the juices.

The thing is, Zevran notices the thing with the peach, but not like when he and Isabela are _together_ together. Not when Alistair is flustering more than Zevran expected.

“I-I didn’t mean...” Alistair says. He’s also missing the increasingly obscene things Isabela is doing to that peach. He stares at the floor, and every time he glances at Zevran he goes a darker shade of red. “I meant... I don’t like groveling, I just...”

“Love begging,” Isabela says, licking the peach juice off her hand. _Sweet Maker, Isabela, these are things I do not need to know._ Zevran blinks, realizing he’s been staring at Alistair’s blush too long.

“Not like _that_ ,” Zevran says, just to prevent the man from hyperventilating. He grabs a small bunch of grapes, drapes himself across one end of Alistair’s couch, and smiles.

 


	2. Bookshelves

Once Zev’s framed _vintage_ movie posters are hung and Isabela is gone, they spend the afternoon putting things away in their own bedrooms. Zevran has the bigger room since he’ll need it for props and scenery until he can get a gig with a big enough budget for a storage unit. Alistair had insisted on taking a full half of the rent since he has a job lined up and Zev’s work is going to be... erratic. If he’s lucky.

The old Craftsman comes with built-in bookshelves in the living room, so when his room is settled, Zevran heads back down. The textbooks go on the bottom shelf: visual composition, filmography, and one from a memorable class on stop motion. His partners for that project had been distractingly gorgeous but (alas) much more into each other than him. Alistair’s textbooks are Complete Shakespeare and How People Learn, literature and brains.

 _Stories_ are how Zev and Alistair became friends, but _teasing_ is how Zevran broke the ice. The straight-arrow tight end had ghosted a party with Alistair’s girlfriend-at-the-time and Isabela. Naturally, Zev seized an opportunity at the next party to tease him. Something about having three cheerleaders in the room instead of two, Zevran can’t remember anymore. Alistair had thought Zev was jealous, which was hilarious, but took it well when Zevran explained that he and Isabela were best friends... with benefits. Zev mentioned _his_ threesome with Isabela and Zev’s boyfriend (no longer in the scene, Zev emphasized), and Alistair blushed bright red. It was fetching on him.

Naturally, Zevran had said he’d like to get to know Alistair better. The line did not result in rejection or sex. No, Alistair had taken him literally and started talking about his major. Zevran was intrigued enough to play along. From there... well, a future language arts teacher and a future filmmaker will inevitably share an interest in stories. That party had ended, in Zevran’s book, when they blinked drunkenly at the rising sun as it lit up their couch for the night, discussing how stories shape and are shaped by culture. It had all _sounded_ like bullshit, but Zevran had _meant_ every word. Alistair means every word, too, especially when he’s telling a story of his own. Just... differently. And in the stories Alistair tells, the men only feature as friends or villains, never the love interest.

Zevran shakes his head. He’s been wool-gathering instead of shelving books. His hands are full of Conspiracy of Whispers, Diamond Age, and Six of Crows. He was sure at least one of them was Alistair’s. _Which was it?_

“Just put them all together,” Alistair says, startling Zevran, who drops Six of Crows and catches it mid-air. “We can sort them out later.”

“Are you sure? Suppose we don’t part on amicable terms?” Zevran asks, pressing the books together again.

Alistair huffs. “Isabela will threaten to cut each book in half, and whoever releases their claim first gets the book.” He folds his arms and leans against a bookshelf.

Zevran smiles. “That doesn’t work if we know the rules,” he says.

“Good point. Let’s just part on amicable terms. Much easier.”

The weather’s warm, and Alistair is wearing a white tee-shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Zevran tries not to be too obvious, admiring those folded arms, savoring the pleasure-pain of Alistair _right there,_ within reach yet untouchable.

“Or not,” Zev says. _Shit._ _Well, let him take that how he will._

Alistair crooks an eyebrow at him. “You’d rather have drama? A tumultuous parting?”

“I’m a film student. Graduate. Whatever.” Zevran laughs too loudly, but Alistair waits for him to finish. He sighs. “Perhaps I have enough drama in my life.”

“I don’t. Maybe we should add some. How about musicals? The most dramatic. We could sing about everyday things, parking tickets and mustard on our shirts.”

“Unpacking?” Zevran says, chuckling.

“I’ve goooooot my rooooooom unpaaaaaaaaaaacked!” Alistair belts out, off-key, lunging and flailing his arms out in an approximation of a musical star. He manages not to bump anything, though.

“Excellent,” Zevran says, handing him the books. “You can help with these, no?”

Grinning, Alistair arranges the books by height, with no regard for whose they are. “So what did you mean?”

“Hmm?” Zevran says, grabbing the next books.

“ _Or not_ part amicably,” Alistair says, carefully taking them from Zevran and placing them on the shelf.

Zevran doesn’t panic. “Ah, just thinking that we have hefted many a box today. It would be nice to never move house again, no? And there’s a nice view here.” It’s transparent, even with the smile he puts with it, but Alistair can ignore the implication. After all, who would believe Zevran is interested in any long-term arrangement?

Alistair shoves a book onto the shelf, muttering. Then he turns to Zevran and says, “I-I... Look, I thought I could do this, but I can’t.” Alistair has always been easy to read, and his distress is plain as day.

Zevran blinks hard. “Can’t do what?”

“There’s no view. Our windows look out onto plain walls or the overgrown landscaping.”

 _Best to diffuse._ “Ah, but I can always look at you. And you? You can look at me.”

Alistair turns pink, as expected, but he says, “That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”

“What,” Zevran asks, cocking his head, “too gay?” This kind of teasing has never bothered Alistair before. They always do this. _Brasca, can I even stop if I need to?_

“No, it’s...” Alistair lets out an exasperated breath and suddenly his fluster is _gone_. “Isabela pointed something out today.” His voice is deeper, quieter, and he has that focus he gets when the game is on the line. It’s incredibly hot.

“Isabela?” Zev asks, struggling to keep track of the conversation.

“She said that you don’t flirt with anyone but me these days.”

“I’m sure that’s not the case,” Zev protests. Then he blinks. _Sweet Maker, it’s true._ “Ah. Well, would it help if I regret that my advances have made you uncomfortable?” Zev has never felt ashamed of flirting, but if Alistair’s uncomfortable enough to move out, he can feel regret. Aha. This is the _can’t_. Alistair can’t put up with Zevran’s flirting. Sure, Zevran wants more, has imagined more, but he’d rather have Alistair as a friend than not at all.

Alistair shoves another book onto the shelf. “I thought it didn’t _mean_ anything. To you. You throw me off balance; you challenge me.” He doesn’t seem uncomfortable. It’s downright eerie.

“Ah, yes, I must be a terrible challenge to resist,” Zevran says, silently begging, _Just blush and stammer. I’ll laugh too loud, and we can go back to how it was._

“You are,” Alistair says, turning to face Zevran again.

Zevran’s grin freezes on his face. _This is not how it’s supposed to go._ He knows his smile looks brittle and fake, but his mind races for something better to do.

“Alistair,” he manages, forcing his face to relax, “are you coming _on_ to me?”

“No.” Alistair steps close to cradle Zevran’s jaw, and says, “I’m accepting your advances.”

A rush of understanding and relief washes through Zevran as he watches Alistair lick his lips.

“Oh, thank fuck,” he says and throws himself into their first kiss. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The correct answer is that Alistair owns Conspiracy of Whispers, Zevran owns Six of Crows, and they each owned a copy of Diamond Age, but Isabela nicked one when she was helping them pack. For those in the know, yes, this confirms that Alistair is Twitter friends with Ada Harper.


End file.
